


Too Many Miles Between

by anatomical_heart



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Fic, Lovett Leaves D.C. for L.A. fic, M/M, Phone Calls, Texting, The D.C. Years, Tommy Doesn't Know What To Do About Lovett Leaving D.C., Tommy Has Nightmares, Voicemails, Vulnerability, Warning for Tommy's Nightmares Which Include Mentions of Kidnapping and Torture, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-11 12:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: “You all ready to go?”Lovett gives a small smile. “For about six months.”The words catch in Tommy’s chest, along with a breath that’s maybe supposed to be amused, but comes out more like a scoff; he’s still not ready to hear shit like that, even though it’s been coming out of Lovett’s mouth for the better part of a month. “All right. Let’s go.”





	Too Many Miles Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moogle62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/gifts).



> Remix of [Things You Said With Too Many Miles Between Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757602/chapters/29103912) by moogle62
> 
> moogle, it was difficult to select a piece from your very impressive breadth of work to remix. There were many tempting things to choose from, but there was something about this tumblr fill that called my name. It checked a lot of boxes that I've been interested in exploring in my own fic—extended long-distance between characters throughout the narrative, a blurriness or gray area between friendship and feeling something _else_ but not having it be explicitly named, and intense conversations (often not in person) where the emotion beneath the words is just as interesting as what's being said. Thank you so much for letting me play in your universe, I hope you enjoy. ♥

_**September 2011**_

_Tommy._

Sometimes he hears Lovett’s voice in his dreams, echoing all around him impossibly, like he’s in the belly of a cave. Or like he's in a sprawling house, in another room, and Lovett's voice comes from above his head or over his left shoulder, behind some locked door he can't find. Tommy rarely sees him. Or if he does, it’s never all of him. Maybe just his expressive face in a nightmare scenario he doesn’t like to dwell on. Something that scrapes against his darkest fears—ones that are improbable, but not impossible; kidnapping is the most common, the one that recurs like clockwork. Most often, he surfaces to consciousness in the dream like he imagines it would happen in the real world: He wakes to darkness and can feel his hot breath on his face, trapped in the black bag over his head, held captive in some remote corner of the globe. In this dream, nothing happens to him directly, and instead, he can hear the voices of people he knows and loves being tortured to extract information. For the last few months, though, Lovett's voice has been the only one he hears—it's Lovett screaming and crying, because of _him_. Because of who he is and what he knows. He dreads those dreams that feel so real; he’s had too many to count. The plot points are all familiar—like his subconscious is following the same terrible script over and over—but every time they come, he doesn’t know he’s dreaming and he can’t wake himself up. At least, not before it reaches some gruesome, horrifying peak.

He hasn't slept well in months. The best sleep he gets comes in fits and spurts—two hours here, three there—on the couch in his apartment.

“ _Tommy._ ”

He startles awake with a hand shaking his shoulder. He blinks rapidly, trying to get his bearings, succeeding only when he finally looks up and Lovett’s standing there, giving him a tight-mouthed expression of regret at having to wake him. 

“Hey, buddy, it’s ah—”

“What time’sit,” Tommy asks immediately, reaching for his phone.

“It’s almost 6:00."

“Ah, _shit._ ” Tommy hurriedly pushes himself up off the couch and scrubs a hand over his face, reaching for his car keys and his wallet. He’s Lovett’s ride to Raegan National for his flight to L.A. at 8:00 PM sharp; at this rate, they’ll be cutting it close with traffic and security. Tommy shakes his head, pissed at himself. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t even—”

“It’s okay,” Lovett says, his voice a little hollow as he picks up his duffel bag, backpack already on and suitcase by his side. “You needed the sleep.”

Tommy can hear something in his tone—a strange marriage of sincerity and irony. He shoves his wallet in his back pocket and his feet in his shoes and throws a look over his shoulder. “You all ready to go?”

Lovett gives a small smile. “For about six months.”

The words catch in Tommy’s chest, along with a breath that’s maybe supposed to be amused, but comes out more like a scoff; he’s still not ready to hear shit like that, even though it’s been coming out of Lovett’s mouth for the better part of a month. “All right. Let’s go.”

695 isn’t as bad as he thinks it’s going to be, but 395 is awful. A fucking parking lot. 

It’s almost 6:30 and Tommy’s squinting into the sun, looking at an unending line of cars ahead of him; he lets out a deep sigh. On the radio, “Moves Like Jagger” is playing, which is swiftly drilling a hole into his head. The next car’s windows are down, even though it’s almost 90 degrees and humid as fuck, and he can hear Rihanna’s “S&M” coming from its blown-out, buzzing speakers. It’s a surreal moment, sitting there with the air conditioning going warm thanks to the idling of his car, Lovett scrolling through his phone as they drive him to the airport to officially start his new life in L.A. He looks over at Lovett, dressed in sweats and a ratty old t-shirt, sunglasses over his eyes and a baseball hat hiding his greasy hair. Tommy wonders if Lovett’s still hungover, because, hand on heart, if he tries hard enough, he’s pretty sure he can still taste last night’s going away party on the back of his tongue.

The car bumping Rihanna moves ahead on their left, and Tommy turns off the radio so they’re left, more or less, in silence, save for the occasional honking and squeaking of bad brakes. 

Lovett looks up at Tommy for a moment, then looks back down at his phone. “Adam Levine not doing it for you tonight?”

Tommy rubs at his temple. “I’d rather have a root canal just now, thanks.”

“Oh, come now, Thomas,” Lovett says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “It's 'Moves Like Jagger.' There have been plenty of nights, about five drinks in, I've seen you singing along. With passion, no less. With _gusto._ "

Tommy spares him a _look_ and Lovett snickers. "Okay, keep denying it, but I know the truth. I know how you keep Maroon 5 close to your heart.”

Tommy snorts indelicately and eases onto the gas when traffic starts to move ahead. Lovett’s not much of a music fan, per se, so Tommy wonders, brow furrowing, “How do _you_ know who sings that song?”

“Excuse me, I listen to all of Adam Levine’s ventures because—and this is true—if you listen close enough, you can actually _hear_ his jawline.”

“Jesus,” Tommy mutters, chuckling. 

“Admit it: You’re going to miss me,” Lovett says confidently, looking out the passenger’s side window.

Tommy feels his smile fade as he swallows down a reply and steps on the brake.

If he’s being honest, he can still feel himself reeling from the conversation he and Lovett had in late June, when Lovett first told him he was going to leave the White House and move out to California. 

_He’d felt blindsided by it, standing in their kitchen after getting home from a relentless day at work. “Wait. What?”_

_Lovett was grinning. Laughing. Talking with his hands and lit up from the inside; Tommy hadn’t seen him like that in a long time. Since before the White House Correspondents Dinner back in April, easily. And it felt like the floor going out from underneath him, realizing Lovett had been planning everything for a while and he was only just hearing about it._

_“So, what… are you going to be doing out there? Consulting work? Writing?”_

_“Writing! Writing! None of that easing-in consultant shit—I’m going to be_ fucking. writing. _in Hollywood, Tommy. Can you believe it?!” Lovett let out this crowing laughter that rang in Tommy’s ears and throughout the apartment._

_Lovett had just gotten word—right before Tommy walked through the door, point of fact—that there were potential openings for on-staff writers at NBC and FX and he had it on good authority his portfolio was under consideration and being passed around as they spoke. But beyond working on someone else’s projects, Lovett had ideas of his own: If things went well with the potential writing gigs, he thought he might have a chance to seriously shop a pilot for a new show. A show of his own that he could write, produce... possibly even direct, holy shit. And to top everything off, he’d just signed on an apartment earlier in the week, which would be waiting for him at the end of September._

 _Hearing Lovett had already found a place to live made it visceral and real in a way Tommy hadn’t been prepared for; if nothing else, Lovett was his roommate._ Fuck, this is really happening, _he thought._

 _Tommy stood in blinking silence, feeling only the very edges of his body as he looked and looked at Lovett—at this person who had somehow become such an integral part of his everyday life. They had become friends, or so he thought. And Lovett was just… quitting._ Leaving, _in order to live what sounded like a new, glitzy life as far away from D.C. as he could get—literally, over 2,500 miles away._

_“When, uh…” Tommy reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, against the headache he could feel creeping up. “When did you… decide all this? When did this happen?”_

_“Honestly,” Lovett said, pulling open the refrigerator and grabbing a Diet Coke, “I really started thinking about it after the State of the Union. Like. End of February? Early March?”_

_Tommy’s hand fell away from his face. Three months. Lovett had been thinking about it for three months. Maybe even more than that._

_Lovett took a long pull off the can and shook his head, “But I didn’t decide to start planning until right before the Correspondents Dinner. And I only started_ talking _about it last month, when things_ really _started coming together. And then_ Jon _found out because—”_

_“Jon knows?” Tommy’s voice sounded high and soft in his own ears. Young. It was embarrassing._

_Lovett’s face screwed up like Tommy said something stupid. “Of course he knows.”_

_Right._ Of course _Jon knew. Why wouldn’t he? Lovett was Jon’s friend. And Jon was Tommy’s friend. And Lovett knew and trusted Tommy, but apparently only to the extent that he’d move into an apartment with him and two other guys. After they started living together, Tommy thought that maybe he and Lovett had gotten to a point where they’d come to be friends on their own, without Jon needing to be there for it to be real. But hearing Lovett tell his story, and realizing he was maybe the last person to find out about it before the general public knew made Tommy think that maybe it was just a thing he told himself to not feel so lonely._

_Fuck, he needed a drink. Tommy let down his messenger bag from his shoulder and set it on the floor before heading to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of beer._

_Lovett explained how he’d decided on a departure date at the end of September so it would give Favs and Axe plenty of time to find a replacement they liked and it would give him a nice cushion of time to make arrangements and pack. It all made sense. It sounded like Lovett had thought of everything, and everything was falling into place; even Lovett couldn’t believe his luck. He talked about_ dreams _the way one dreams of a fresh start, a new life—a better life. And for Lovett, his dreams lay in Hollywood, and Hollywood seemed to be waiting for him._

_A small smile tugged at the corner of Lovett's mouth as he asked, “So what do you think?”_

_“Me?” Tommy motioned toward himself with the beer in his hand._

_Lovett looked like he was serious in asking for Tommy’s opinion, chewing on the inside of his mouth like he did when he was self-conscious or nervous. “Who else am I talking to? Yeah, you.” He shrugged. “What do you think?”_

_“I think it sounds great,” Tommy said, trying so hard to sound genuine, and not like he was forcing the words past his teeth. It wasn't like any of it sounded bad—it didn’t, it sounded incredible. What a huge fucking opportunity for Lovett that had the potential to be utterly, utterly life-changing. But the sense of impending loss was digging a gaping hole into the center of Tommy's chest, and trying to pretend like it wasn’t happening was the only way he was going to make it through the conversation in one piece._

_“Yeah? Seriously,” Lovett asked with his hopeful-apprehensive eyebrows, like he wanted to believe Tommy, but couldn’t quite make himself do it just yet._

_Tommy reached out a hand, settled it on Lovett’s shoulder, and said with every ounce of sincerity he could muster, “I’m really happy for you, Jon.”_

That was three months ago, and Tommy's not sure where the time went. 

The driver in the car next to them lays on the horn, which startles Tommy out of his memory, making him jump. “Jesus Christ,” he yelps in reflex, and lets out a rough breath when he sees the passenger of the honking car flip him off. “Yeah, you, too, buddy,” he mutters, lifting his chin and scoffing as they pass; Lovett turns the radio back on.

It’s ten to 7:00 by the time they arrive at the gate. Lovett does curbside check-in to save some time. He asks about security, and the man who scans his ticket says they’ve got all lanes open and the lines are clear. 

“Best I can hope for. Thanks for the scoop,” Lovett replies kindly, rapping on the counter twice, before turning back toward Tommy. 

Tommy’s leaning back against the trunk of his car, watching everything, arms crossed over his chest, a lump in his throat and no idea what he’s going to say.

“Well,” Lovett says, shrugging, a strange smile on his face. “Guess this is it.” He bites the inside of his cheek.

Tommy slips his hands into his pockets and looks down at the ground, nodding slowly, before pushing himself up off the car. “Yep.”

“Don’t miss me too much, okay?" Lovett asks this with a wry twist of his lips.

All Tommy can manage for a moment is a ghost of a laugh and a shake of his head, looking everywhere but Lovett's face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“ _That._ ”

“Well, don’t do what you’re doing, either.”

“And what’s that,” Tommy asks, brows lifting toward his hairline, finally able to make eye contact now that there’s a challenge on the table.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Lovett accuses, voice a little unsteady. 

Tommy raises his hands in surrender. “You got me.”

Lovett’s breath hitches in his chest—Tommy can see it—and he shakes his head, mouth pressed into a tight line. “Okay.”

“Call me when you get out there?”

The request seems to catch Lovett off-guard, and he looks at Tommy in a way that feels like Lovett can see everything written all over his face, every buried thought and unspoken word. After a minute, Lovett nods. “Yeah. I will.”

Tommy nods in kind. _Okay._ Before he knows what he’s doing, he opens his arms. 

Lovett grins—something that reaches up into his eyes—and gives him a hug. 

Tommy wraps his arms around Lovett and squeezes him once. “Good luck,” he murmurs.

“Thanks,” Lovett returns, soft enough that it belongs only to them.

After a moment that goes on almost too long, Tommy claps Lovett twice on the back and lets him go.

With one last nod, Lovett ducks his head and turns toward the glass corridor leading into the airport. About halfway there, he looks back, and Tommy’s there to see it. 

Tommy lifts his right hand in acknowledgement and farewell, with the last bit of a smile he has left to give.

***

**Text from Lovett, 4:45 AM EST:** _En route to West Hollywood. There was a man next to me who snored once, deafeningly, every 15 minutes. I feel wrecked. I welcome your pity._

 **Text from Lovett, 4:54 AM, EST:** _Thanks for bringing me to the airport and not making a thing about it. Hope I didn’t wake you up._

 **Text from Tommy, 6:01 AM EST:** _You didn’t. And hey. Anytime._

***

_**October 2011**_

It’s a few days before Halloween and Lovett’s been gone a month.

He’s supposed to be meeting Favs and Cody in half an hour, but he told Lovett he’d call him sometime today, and he hasn’t done it yet; he’s feeling anxious. After Lovett’s stuff got held up in Albuquerque, and then finally arrived five days later, Tommy hadn’t heard from him hardly at all. It didn’t help that Tommy got sucked into a total quagmire at work and pulled something like 65 hours that week; he paid for it for the next two by getting some nasty chest cold and is only just starting to feel something like himself again. He's tried to assure himself that Lovett had to get acclimated, had plenty to do out there, but he can't help the nagging fear that maybe Lovett's just... forgotten him. Like staying in touch is a futile fucking enterprise.

Tommy looks at his phone for the third time in as many minutes. It’s 7:30, which means it’s 4:30 in L.A. If he’s going to call, he should call now: Lovett will have only eaten lunch a few hours ago, so he wouldn’t be interrupting dinner. He might still be working, but… maybe he could take a break while on the phone. Like it would be more of a welcome interruption and less of an annoying intrusion.

_Snap out of it, Vietor. It’s just Lovett. He's your friend. He’ll be happy to hear from you. And if you get his voicemail, you just leave a message so he can call you back._

Tommy takes a deep breath, presses the call button, and brings the phone to his ear. It rings a few times, and each ring burrows its way further into his stomach; he knows Lovett’s not going to answer by the third ring. Inevitably, Tommy gets Lovett’s voicemail.

_Hi, you’ve reached Jon Lovett. I’m sorry I missed your call, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks._

A grin tugs on the corner of Tommy’s mouth as he feels his shoulders relax at the sound of Lovett’s voice; it’s good to hear him. Even if it’s a scripted, professionally-appropriate voicemail message.

“Hey, Jon, it’s Tommy. I, uh…” he laughs a little. “I wanted to…”

_What? You wanted to what?_

He lets out a sigh. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to call and I wanted to see how you were doing out there. And I…” 

His phone beeps and Tommy pulls it away from his face to see that it’s Lovett calling him back. He immediately switches lines. “Hello?”

“Hey, sorry, you caught me on a Starbucks run—I’m in the car,” Lovett explains almost at a shout.

Tommy’s smile nearly splits his face. “From the writer’s room to coffee boy—how the mighty have fallen.”

“Oh, c’mon, give me a little more credit than _that!_ ” 

At least, that’s what Tommy _thinks_ Lovett says—the sound of wind whipping across the microphone makes him wince. “I can barely hear you,” he yells.

“Ugh, my fucking—hold on.” There’s a pause, and then Lovett comes back loud and clear. “Is this better? My air conditioning broke.”

“Did it break like it’s leaking fluid or did it break like it needs to be re-charged and you don’t want to pay the fee?”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Lovett says, and Tommy can hear the clicking of the turn signal. 

“Well, listen, I didn’t mean to bring up a precarious financial situation—”

“Too late.”

“—but I wanted to know how it’s going out there. How the hell are you?”

“I’m great,” Lovett shouts again, even though he just put his windows up. “How are you?”

Tommy bites his lower lip. Deflection's not exactly the best sign. “I’m all right. I’m going to meet Favs and Cody here in a minute. Halloween at Mike’s.” 

“'Mike’s.' You mean like Comms Mike? Or D.O.D. Mike?”

“'Mike' like ‘Mike’s Taproom’ Mike. Up near Petworth.”

“ _What_ are you all doing up near Petworth? You’re a bunch of Logan Circle/Georgetown boys.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”

“Yikes. Can you skip it?”

“I was promised food I didn’t have to pay for, and everyone else is gonna be there. So.”

“Wow, with a ringing endorsement like that, how could anyone say no? Sounds like a blast." 

Tommy’s pretty sure he’d never been able to _hear_ someone roll their eyes before he met Lovett, and the way he blows holes in Tommy's Halloween plans makes him shrug in self-defense. “What else am I going to do?”

“Well, no offense, but the Halloween party I'm going to is going to kick the shit out of your plans, so you better brace yourself.”

“Yeah? What are you doing?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he asks the more important question: “Better yet, what are you wearing? Are you dressing up?”

“Of _course_ I’m dressing up.”

“Of course you’re dressing up,” Tommy echoes fondly; he’s missed this.

“Oh my god, you should see it. Sheer. _Brilliance._ I came up with it two nights ago at like 3 in the morning. I’m going as—oh, shit. I’m getting another call.” There’s a slight pause before, “It’s from NBC. Fuck, it’s about my interview last week, I know it.”

“Oh,” Tommy breathes, startled. “Well, get it! Get it, and tell me how it goes after, okay? You got this!”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. I gotta go. Bye!”

A weird combination of excitement and disappointment washes over Tommy as the line disconnects—excitement for news of Lovett’s impending success, and disappointment for having to let him go so quickly—but he squashes it, and tries to focus on how Lovett is going to be writing for NBC soon. How he’s going to be living out his dream of being a comedy writer in Hollywood in no time. 

Tommy sets his phone down and gets up off the couch so he can change into his costume, which isn’t really a costume at all: A Boston Red Sox jersey, white work out pants he found on sale rolled to his calves, MLB players socks, and cleats, complete with a whiffle bat and a licensed hat. It wasn’t very creative, but it was cheap, and it would work well enough for tonight.

He checks his phone before locking up the apartment to catch the metro over to Jon’s; nothing from Lovett. 

With a nod, he selects Jon’s name from his list of text contacts and sends, _Running behind. Be there soon._

***

**Text from Lovett, 3:07 AM, EST:** _I didfn’t get the jobb. You aaround?_

 **Text from Lovett, 3:12 AM, EST:** _Gguses not. Happy Holloween. Hope Petsworth wasfun._

 **Voicemail from Tommy, 11:04 AM EST:** _Hey, Lovett, uh. I just got your texts—I was passed out when you sent them. I’m so sorry, man. Fuck. Uh—listen. I’ll be around today if you need to talk it out. Okay? Just call. Or text. Y’know. Anytime. Okay. Talk to you later. Bye._

***

__

_**November 2011**_

He wakes up covered in sweat and clinging to the edge of the bed, his heart throwing itself wildly against the cage of his ribs. As soon as Tommy registers he’s awake, that he’d been stuck in another nightmare, he turns on the light to chase away any lingering traces and flops onto his back to try and catch his breath. He runs a hand over his eyes which burn with salt, and licks his lips.

_Please, no, I don’t know anything—please! Please!_

It was Lovett’s voice, again. It felt so real; they always feel so real. 

Tommy’s throat goes tight as he he grits his teeth and takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to calm down. 

He knows Lovett’s fine. He’s safe. Intellectually, Tommy knows this. But what if he isn’t? What if Lovett isn’t okay?

Before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches for his phone and dials Lovett’s number. He closes his eyes and murmurs, “Please, pick up. Please, pick up.”

“Hello?”

It’s a low, scratchy voice that Tommy doesn’t recognize and he starts to panic. “Lovett?”

“Tommy? What time is it? What’s going on?” Lovett pauses briefly, then asks, “Have you slept? Are you all right?”

Tommy scoffs at himself and closes his eyes. “Yeah. I just—it’s stupid. You’re going to laugh.”

“Yeah, well, that’s always a possibility,” Lovett sighs. 

Tommy’s not sure what to say to that. Fuck. This _is_ stupid. He shouldn’t have called.

Then, Lovett says, “Try me.” This is quieter. Softer. It hits Tommy square in the chest, catches on the hooks that have been left buried under his skin ever since Lovett left. 

Tommy pulls the phone away from his face and puts a hand over his mouth. The last time Tommy talked to Lovett after he found out he didn't get the job at NBC, Lovett sounded… distant. Closed-off. Far away. In the dream, Lovett was out of sight, but not far enough away that Tommy couldn't hear him begging with their captors for his life. Pleading for mercy, for safety. And this is the exact opposite. There’s warmth and worry all mixed together that’s so effortless and so _Lovett_ it feels like he's right there next to Tommy...but he's not. He’s on the other side of the goddamn country. There's just an empty, Lovett-shaped hole where his friend should be.

Tommy’s able to get himself together enough to talk again after a long moment. “I had this dream,” he says, voice hollow and echoing in his ears.

“Hot.” 

A faint laugh startles out of him, and he… loves Jon for that. For trying to interrupt Tommy’s grim, racing thoughts. He sucks in an unsteady breath and blinks away the images trying to break their way in.

“All right. I’m here,” Lovett murmurs. “I’m here.”

"It's uh—it's a lot. It's pretty fucked up." He pulls his legs up to his chest. "... _I'm_ pretty fucked up."

"Try me," Lovett says again, voice firmer. Not a reprimand, but a reminder. _Focus on me. I'm here. I'm listening._ It feels... protective. 

So Tommy tells him. Not everything—Lovett doesn’t need to know that his is the voice Tommy hears, or that Lovett has appeared in every nightmare he’s had since he moved to L.A.—but he tells him enough. Lovett listens to it all. Doesn't shy away. Doesn’t joke or judge. Doesn’t make him stop when it turns graphic. And, Jesus, Tommy could cry from gratitude.

He’s exhausted by the time he gets done, adrenaline having ebbed out of him bit by bit with every passing word, pulse and breath finally slowing to normal. When he falls quiet, Lovett jumps in, filling the space with noise. And it's so comforting, not being left in embarrassed, shameful silence after all of that. Lovett tells Tommy about all the little mundane details of his life from the last time they spoke. The places he likes to go when he's got writer's block, all the amazing food trucks and restaurants he's discovered, even some of the writing he's doing.

When Tommy starts yawning every fifteen seconds, Lovett asks, “You okay to try sleeping again?”

He looks at the clock: It’s after 3:30. If he passes out now, he could log a few more hours. “Yeah.” He reaches up and clicks off the light. “I think so. Thanks.”

Lovett doesn’t respond to the thanks. Instead, he pauses for a moment, before he says, “You should come out to California.”

Tommy hums skeptically and closes his eyes. “Mm, yeah, with all that free time I have, sure…” 

“Please. You haven’t heard the word ‘vacation’ since before the election. _In '07_. You’ve fucking earned it.”

Shifting on the mattress, Tommy decides to entertain the thought. “Okay. So I come to California. What then?”

“Really?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Oh, _hypothetically._ ” Lovett snorts. “I’m better than your garden variety hypothetical scenario, Vietor.” 

Tommy makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, acknowledging the truth of Lovett’s words, but he says nothing—he’s been lulled to that point of almost-sleep where the words he wants to speak aloud pool uselessly on his tongue. Maybe they get chewed up in consideration, but they don’t make it past his lips.

“Well, I’d pick you up from the airport, because I’m a truly selfless individual, and trying to navigate LAX alone is a living nightmare. And we’d stop by my favorite taco truck on the way to my place. Cocina Azul. Fuck, they have the best carnitas I’ve ever had in my life. I’ll get you _drunk_ on carnitas and verde…”

That’s the last thing Tommy hears before sleep takes him.

He wakes a little after 6:00 with the sun in his eyes and his phone on the pillow next to him. When he picks it up, he’s down to 20% battery life and there’s a text message from Lovett: _You fell asleep while I was talking, asshole. I demand restitution in the form of breakfast tacos. Book your flight and pay up._

Warmth floods through Tommy’s veins and a wide grin stretches his face. _Don’t hold your breath,_ he texts back without thinking. And then, after he showers and shaves and feels mostly human again, adds, _Thanks for picking up the phone, Jon. I appreciate you._ He meant to say “it,” not “you,” but he presses send before he can correct it. And, really… it’s true: He doesn’t just appreciate Lovett picking up the phone—he appreciates that Lovett is someone he can call in the middle of the night, someone he can trust with the things that make him feel small and afraid, someone who can make him feel safe. 

So he leaves it, doesn’t correct himself, and heads to work, entertaining the thought of a vacation for the first time in over four years.

***

**Text from Tommy, 8:19 PM EST:** _Hey, are you coming back to the east coast for Thanksgiving?_

 **Text from Lovett, 8:53 PM EST:** _Not this year, I’ve got a thing the Friday after._

 **Text from Tommy, 8:56 PM EST:** _Oh, okay. Was hoping maybe we could meet up while you were out here._

 **Text from Lovett, 10:15 PM EST:** _Raincheck?_

 **Text from Tommy, 10:22 PM EST:** _That’d be nice._

 **Text from Lovett, 12:32 AM EST:** _Or you could come out to California._

 **Text from Tommy, 4:10 AM EST:** _Don’t start that again._

***

__

_**December 2011**_

It’s 5:03 AM when Tommy’s phone rings; he’s been awake all of three minutes and a jolt goes through him as the sound pierces the air. He groans and gropes for it on the nightstand and doesn’t look at who it is, just brings the phone up to his face. “Vietor,” he sighs, exhausted.

“There’ee is.”

Tommy’s eyes crack open and he sits up. “Lovett?”

“Heyyyy. Hey, Tommy,” Lovett warbles. “Jus’ the person I wanted t’hear. How are you?”

God, he sounds _trashed._ Tommy squints as he turns on the bedside lamp and looks at the clock again; it’s after 2:00 in the morning on the West Coast. Closing time. He swings his legs out from under the covers and over the edge of the bed, needing to feel the ground beneath his feet. “Jon, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Whaddya mean? I jus’ wanted tuh…” Lovett takes in a shuddering breath that cuts right through Tommy and wakes him up quickly. “…tuh talk t'you."

“Jon… are you okay?”

“Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. I am _great_.”

A cold stone drops into the pit of Tommy’s stomach; Jon does not sound great. “Okay…”

“I mean, I’m in ffffffucking L.A., Tommy, what are you even _talking about?_ I am _great._ ”

He feels everything start to slow down as he tries to break through the boozy haze fogging up Lovett’s brain. “Jon, are you at home, or are you still out?”

“M’at home. On my couch. Talking to _you_. On the other side of the country. Over t-two _thousand_ miles away.” Lovett’s voice is stretched thin, almost like it’s coming from behind clenched teeth. Stressed and... kind of skirting along the edge of angry. Or sad? He can't really tell.

Tommy swallows hard and slow and scrubs a hand over his face, sleep still in his eyes. He’s not sure what to do. “Are you sure you're okay, Jon?

“Jesus, would you _stop!_ _asking_ me that! Fuck!”

Tommy feels himself freeze at Lovett’s cracked and fraying voice. Oh, shit. Lovett's _crying_.

He's not supposed to be hearing this. That's the chorus that keeps echoing through his head. He’s not supposed to be hearing how Lovett hasn't been able to stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks. He’s not supposed to be hearing the desperation for everything to be fine making Lovett’s throat tight. And the realization that all those things are actually happening... there’s just terrible silence in the aftermath.

 _Say something,_ Tommy urges himself. _You have to say something._

“All right,” Tommy murmurs, quietly. “All right. I’m sorry.”

“Good,” Lovett spits back, “You should be.” He sniffs, and Tommy can hear him trying to shove everything back down inside himself, hide it behind anger, and Tommy’s heart aches because of it. “Because I am having th' _best fucking Hollywood time_ out here,” he declares, loud and making Tommy pull the phone away from his face. “An’ you should be _jealous_.”

Tommy bites his top lip. He shouldn't say it. But he can't stop it. “I am.”

In his mind's eye, he can see Lovett's face contort in surprise and confusion. “You are?”

“Yeah.” He ducks his head and leans his elbows heavily on his thighs. He’s not jealous of Lovett himself. Or, at least, not the way Lovett wants him to be. He’s jealous of L.A. Resentful that Lovett’s so far away. Anxious that the fear of their fading friendship feels like a self-fulfilling prophecy he hasn’t been able to shake since Lovett told him he was leaving. And right now, in this moment, he’d give _anything_ to be somewhere other than where he is—in D.C. and sick with envy and too many other things for fucking 5:00 in the morning. “Yeah, I am."

“Oh.” It's soft and a little awkward, and it seems to signal the abrupt end to Lovett’s rant. Like now that Tommy’s given Lovett what he wants, he doesn’t want it anymore.

Tommy huffs out a small laugh at himself. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’”

They’re quiet for a long time. And then, without warning, Lovett says, in this wrecked and watery voice, “L.A. is fucked. S'fucked, Tommy, it's so fucked. I don't have a writing job. M’doing fucking stand-up again, for fuck’s sake. I've got no pr-prospects. I've had five interviews since getting out here which has meant _dick_. And... and... fuck, _I miss you.”_

Not _I miss D.C._ or _the White House_ or _you and Jon and Cody and Dan and everybody_. But _I miss you._

Fuck.

Tommy feels his eyes start to sting. “I miss you too, Jon.”

“You do?” The words are so small, Tommy could hold them in his hands.

“Of _course_ I do.”

Lovett sniffles and goes quiet for a moment, seeming to take all of this in before mumbling unintelligibly.

“What'd you say?”

“My face hurts."

“Do you think you can sleep?”

“ _No._ ” Pause. “…maybe."

“I want you to try, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Silence.

“Jon, you’ll feel better once you get some water in you and get some sleep. Trust me.”

“…I do.”

Something takes flight inside Tommy’s chest at that, and he holds onto the feeling as tight as he can as he talks Lovett through getting up off the couch and going into the kitchen. He's able to convince Lovett to drink a full glass of cool water and fill up another before finally heading to the bedroom, and he feels relief once he hears Lovett finally settle onto the bed.

“Why’re you so nice t'me,” Lovett asks, the edges of his words blurring together.

Tommy shakes his head. “Because you’re going to be pissed at yourself tomorrow when you remember all this.”

“No. I mean. All th’time. You’re nice all th’time. Why?”

“You’re an idiot,” Tommy sighs. There’s no acid in the words at all, just a fondness that feels like it’s been there since as long as he’s known Lovett.

“Yeah, I am.”

“No, you’re not. I’m just.” Tommy lets out a small breath. “This is what friends do. Y’know?”

“Yeah. I guess.” Lovett doesn’t sound like he’s too sure, but he’s put his trust in Tommy, and that’s the answer he’s going with.

“Go to sleep.”

“Fine.”

“Text me tomorrow?”

“M’ _fine,_ Tommy.”

“Just do it, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Tommy can hear him curled up against his pillow.

“Okay. G’night, Lovett.”

“G'night."

"Sleep tight," Tommy says, as kind of a joke. Something light, anyway, to try and make Lovett smile.

"Love you."

Tommy blinks. Speechless. He feels the words go through his entire body—a slow-burn that has him shivering when he hangs up. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. His ears are still ringing with it when he finally lets himself relax and swallow it down.

He wasn’t supposed to hear it, just like he wasn’t supposed to hear Lovett crying; it wasn’t his to know.

There’s a panicked moment where he tries to rationalize it. Friends say _I love you,_ all the time.

…but.

That’s not what this felt like. This felt like a slip-up, or a secret—the whole call did. Something a person might think but never say. It felt like Tommy was given a window into everything Lovett’s been holding onto by watching it suddenly spill out everywhere, as though he just couldn’t hold it anymore. So much of it made sense. It explained why Tommy hadn’t heard what Lovett was doing for work, why he wasn’t reaching out, why some of the conversations they’d been having over the past few weeks were so stilted and halting. Lovett was _ashamed._ Getting rejected over and over after giving up so much to move out there and feeling like he had nothing to show for it? Jesus, that sounds awful.

But what about the last part? _Love you._ What was that? Why would he say it? At all, but especially right then? Maybe Jon really _was_ describing a level of intimacy in their friendship. Maybe it was something else. But whatever it was, or is, or whatever... Tommy can’t pretend he didn’t hear it, that it didn’t happen; he can still feel it in his skin.

He goes over and over and over the moment in his mind, searching for the truth inside those two words until a headache starts to bloom behind his eye, when he knows he has to get up for work.

He doesn’t know how long he sits on the edge of his bed, thinking, but Tommy’s over half an hour late to work by the time he pulls himself away from it all; he apologizes quickly to everyone from behind the largest coffee money can buy.

***

**Text from Tommy, 2:45 PM EST:** _Are you alive?_

 **Text from Lovett, 3:01 PM EST:** _It’s debatable._

 **Text from Tommy, 3:03 PM EST:** _Call me optimistic, but I’m going to take that as a yes._

 **Text from Tommy, 3:17 PM EST:** _What happened last night?_

**[No response.]**

***

_**New Year's Eve**_

Tommy ducks into a darkened bedroom—sweater covered in confetti and wearing a cardboard top hat that says _HAPPY NEW YEAR!_ in gold font—while people are still popping and toasting champagne out in the living room. The last few bars of “Auld Lang Syne” starts to fade into something he doesn’t recognize, and he can hear people laughing and whooping through the door. He doesn’t want any of it, suddenly. Now that midnight has come and gone, he feels exhausted, and he breathes a sigh of relief with the door closed and locked behind him. Tossing the hat onto the bed, piled high with coats, he goes to the window and looks out at the city, eyes inexorably drawn to the celebrations pouring out onto the sidewalks below.

After a few minutes of watching, he pulls his phone out of his pocket to see that he has about ten text messages waiting for him, mostly from family. He dismisses them one by one, thumbs down to his contacts, selects Lovett’s name, and calls him.

It rings twice before he gets Lovett’s voicemail. He closes his eyes and waits for the beep.

“Hey, Jon, it’s Tommy. Listen. I’ve been thinking about what you said about coming out to visit. And... well... I bought a plane ticket. It’s just for a few days—a long weekend, really—but I’ll be flying out at the end of the month. Gimme a call and we can plan something, okay? I still owe you breakfast tacos.” He smiles faintly at that, hoping Lovett appreciates the callback. Hoping that Lovett actually calls him back, because he hasn’t really heard from Lovett since that night Lovett called him drunk and told Tommy he loved him. He swallows, and says warmly, “Happy New Year.”

***

**Text from Lovett, 3:03 AM EST:** _So all it takes to get you to visit is a few months of harassment and a threat to make you buy me breakfast tacos?_

 **Text from Tommy, 3:10 AM EST:** _Maybe I just miss you, asshole._

 **Text from Lovett, 3:12 AM EST:** _Gosh. You say the sweetest things._

***

_**January 2012**_

The flight from D.C. to L.A. is just about 6 hours long. He pays for the in-flight WiFi so he can get a few things done before the weekend, and logs a solid three hours. The rest of the time, he alternates between listening to an audiobook, shuffling through his playlists, and trying to quash the nerves that are making a mess of his stomach.

Miraculously, the plane arrives early, so after they finally land and taxi, Tommy’s able to grab his suitcase no problem. Once he steps outside the terminal, a wave of warm, dry air hits him square in the face and he takes a deep breath in, trying to get it all the way into the very corners of his lungs. It's not super cold in D.C. but it also isn't 75 degrees with clear blue skies and palm trees, like some kind of paradise. He closes his eyes and steps into the sunshine, trying to soak up the full just-got-to-California experience in its entirely. He feels greedy for it, hungry for it — for a taste of something new. A taste of what life could be like outside the White House, maybe—the thing that Lovett started searching for around the same time last year.

His phone starts to ring, shaking Tommy from his reverie. He pulls it out and smiles when he sees it's Lovett. "Hey," he says easily. "I'm at the terminal."

"I know, I can see you. Look to your left."

Tommy looks around and spots a figure waving at him about nine cars down. "And I can see you," he says, waving over his head. 

Lovett hangs up the phone and Tommy books it that way, pulling his suitcase after him. When he gets close enough, he can see Lovett holding a handmade sign that reads "VIETOR." Tommy's grin widens as he approaches. "What service," he quips, stopping at the front of the car. 

Lovett smirks at him. "Are you impressed?"

"Very."

"Good, because not everyone who visits gets the star treatment."

"You mean getting picked up at 10:00 AM in a 1998 BMW by a Hollywood writer wearing sweatpants?"

Chuckling, Lovett shrugs. "Welcome to L.A."

Tommy reaches for him, and Lovett goes willingly as Tommy hugs him around the shoulders; Lovett's arms come up to loop around Tommy's waist.

"It's good to see you," Lovett hums. 

The hug goes on for a little bit more than a little too long, and Tommy can feel his heart rate start to pick up in earnest. 

They pull away, but only far enough to look at each other, and before Tommy knows it, he leans back in to kiss Lovett.

Lovett makes a small, surprised sound at the back of his throat, but doesn't pull away.

The kiss itself is tender and soft and even though it doesn't last very long... to Tommy, it's perfect.

When it ends, Lovett's left blinking up at him with wide eyes. "Why'd you do that," he blurts almost defensively, a blush rapidly starting to stain his cheeks.

Tommy’s brow furrows. "Was that okay?"

"I didn't say it wasn't okay, I asked you _why."_

Tommy shrugs. "I've wanted to for a long time."

"How long?"

"Almost eight months."

Eight months next week, in fact—since the moment Lovett told him he was leaving. That night, in the kitchen, Tommy had felt it well up inside him, the urge to grab Lovett's face and kiss him and make him stay. Even when it was impossible, and even though life doesn't work out that way. If he's being honest, he probably felt that way long before June, but it had never been so clear until the words were out of Lovett's mouth. _I'm moving out to L.A._ It was only with the threat of so many miles between them that it all clicked into place.

Lovett lets out a disbelieving, joyous laugh that lights up his face before he leans up to kiss Tommy back, pulling him in with a hot hand on the back of his neck.


End file.
